


Queer Idea

by Elphen



Category: Lewis (TV), QI - Fandom
Genre: M/M, QI, Quotations, tv show discussion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-12
Updated: 2012-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-29 09:57:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elphen/pseuds/Elphen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boys discuss the queer-ness of QI and what type Fry (of rather they themselves) prefers</p>
            </blockquote>





	Queer Idea

**Author's Note:**

> My very first Lewis-fic and I'm nervous as hell. The idea may not be totally original - I seem to recall a BWOC fic on the same lines - but it popped into my head while watching QI and it wouldn't go. I went for sweet and light, but don't know if I succeeded. Also, I've had no betas on this, faults and mistakes are all my own.
> 
> Oh, and the title is curtesy of Fry himself - his magnetic letters-board with "QI is a Queer Idea".

He isn’t even sure why they’re watching it. It’s Friday evening after another long week of work. Well, technically, he supposes it’s bordering on three weeks now, given that the last couple of weekends have been roped in as overtime for the sake of catching the latest criminal, without either of them really noticing. Funny how you get used to things, really, especially when you’re not really _supposed_ to get used to it.

But here they are; they got their confession late last night and they’ve been dealing with the paperwork for most of the day, which has actually left them more knackered than the actual case, man-hours with-standing, or the subsequent battle to get a confession. He had been ready to just go home and fall face-down on his bed without bothering to take his clothes or even his shoes off. Hathaway had other ideas, though. Said that he wouldn’t get a wink of sleep if he didn’t unwind first, so he’d come around seven with some take-away and a bottle of wine, would that suit, _sir_?

He hadn’t had the heart or energy to say no. Didn’t say anything at all, as a matter of fact, just stood there knowing that as soon as the words had left his sergeant’s mouth, it was a done deal. Stupid sod.

One thing you could say about the smug, lanky clever-clogs was that he kept his word. There he was, at 7 o’clock _sharp_ – like he’d been counting the seconds outside the door and knocked the moment the second hand reached twelve - with the promised takeaway, Indian by the smell, and not one, but two wine bottles stuffed under his arm.

Now they’re sitting here, on his couch, stuffed full with too-greasy food and slightly tipsy from having emptied one bottle. If it was up to him, they’d be watching something mindless on the telly, but Hathaway has insisted that if they are gonna watch that stupid box, they might as well watch something with a semblance of intelligence. Lewis had been rather worried at that, but his sergeant had taken pity on him on some level and had settled on a QI marathon.

It isn’t a bad show, he has to admit. It’s educating, but never patronising – apart from Stephen Fry’s occasional comments, particularly to Alan Davies – and there are enough silly bits in order for him not to mind having to watch it, noise and knowledge and all. It’s nice, spending your evening this way, with somebody curled up on the other end of the sofa and enjoying it along with you. He doesn’t know why Hathaway – James – has elected to curl himself up so small when there’s at least one seat between him and Lewis he could stretch out on. Typical of Hathaway to chose the least logical solution. Probably just because he can, knowing him.

“So?”

He turns towards the other, finding him already looking at him, and blinks, trying to focus on what he is being asked and whether or not he has missed any previous conversation. He thinks not, but then again, he had possibly been about to nod off for a bit there.

“So what?” he asks, his voice coming off gruffer than intended, most likely due to his confusion.

Hathaway doesn’t seem to take heed; he just smiles and inclines his head slightly in the direction of the TV, never taking his eyes off Lewis.

“So what do you think?” The tone is wryly amused with a hint of exasperation, as if the blonde hadn’t really expected his inspector to be paying attention, but is intrigued to see how he’d deal with it.

“Of the show? Not bad, really. Fry reminds me a bit of Morse, actually. Same love of knowledge. I would have thought a program like this too...common for you, though. Too...lowbrow, perhaps.”

Strangely, James doesn’t pick up on the banter instantly as usual or even pretends to be offended. Instead he just smiles, a soft little smile that sets something inside Lewis fluttering, which in turn makes him blink in surprise over it.

“Actually, sir,” Hathaway says slowly as if to make sure his superior will actually understand what he is saying – why does he do that, it’s not as if Lewis is stupid, just because he wasn’t a college fellow – “though I’m mortified you’d think such an excellent show beneath me, I was _referring_ to the chemistry of the show. Apart from the whole good-natured teasing of Fry being gay – I noticed you haven’t picked up on that one at all – there’s an underlying current of...amorous intent.”

Lewis is now staring at his Sergeant, trying to work out _exactly_ what he is on about. There is nothing casual about Hathaway. Not even the clothes worn when he’s just lounging about at home with no-one there, for Pete’s sake. Everything is carefully picked, carefully constructed. He’s like one of those huge expressionistic paintings by someone like Van Gogh or Munch that at first glance look confusing and disjointed with strange little bits sticking out here and there that you _think_ you can recognize, but when you get closer you realise it is all carefully constructed and well thought out to achieve exactly the image and the reaction that the artist wanted.

Robbie wryly suspects that James would disapprove of being compared with an expressionistic painting, probably preferring the comparison of at least an impressionistic or a neo-classical painting, but the wildness lurking beneath the scene in expressionism is very fitting, he thinks, of his partner – like the real meaning, the real core of this is somewhere underneath and you will get to it, if only you work at it.

When even his socks are matched up perfectly with the rest of his clothes and the mood of the day even if nobody will see it, it would be strange of him not to choose what he says and even his wording carefully. Hell, that has been what’s both annoyed and thrilled Lewis about Hathaway’s dry remarks in the past. So why draw attention to this...this flirting – amorous intent indeed; he’ll get James back for sounding high-brow and smug _again_ – that is obviously part of the show and, to Lewis who has picked up on it, lad, thank you, is no more than just another shot of the friendly banter. Well, most of the time.

So Hathaway obviously wants to tell him something, though what he can’t think. Well, he has an inkling, truth be told, judging from another little flutter in his heart which he firmly squashes, well tries to squash, without much luck. He’s being ridiculous; there’s no way James could be trying to tell him **_that_**. It was a dream, a fantasy; an un-requited thing probably caused by being lonely and having spent too much time in the lad’s, admittedly wonderful, company. No need to go fooling yourself and get your hopes up, man, he chides himself.

“Well, if you are referring to the _flirting_ , Sergeant,” he replies and looks at the screen, deciding that two can play this game and he wants to see where Hathaway intends to take this, “I think it’s...nice, actually. Gives the whole show a nice atmosphere, seeing as it’s usually so down-played you only really notice it if you’re looking for it”. He steals a quick glance in the direction of the other to try and gauge his reaction, which seems to be calm, except that you obviously can never tell with the blonde’s habit of a deadpan. “I do admit, though, that it’s a bit thick in this one, on Fry’s part. He obviously fancies that blonde one,” Lewis says and inclines his half full wineglass towards the right side of the TV. “I can see sorta see why, meself”.

Now this gets a reaction. Suddenly Hathaway isn’t casually sitting there anymore; he’s bolt upright, in so much that one would notice, and not nearly as deadpan as before. Good thing Lewis has been watching him so much over the years that he knows the tells, well, most of the time, when he’s looking for them.

The voice, though, is still as calm as ever. “Really, sir, I never would have thought. Not sure I would agree with you, though”.

Wonder if Hathaway could truly believe that he would go for the blonde. _A_ blonde, certainly, but not the one on the screen, definitely not. No, Lewis prefers his blonde to be all-natural and golden, with matching golden eyelashes and eyebrows, not dyed with bleach, thank you very much. He decides to push his luck.

“You don’t fancy the blonde? He’s something of a looker with that face.” He can’t help the slight smirk in his voice, as he senses his quiet goading is working; Hathaway is not pleased with his statement, if he’s any judge, any judge at all. Wonder if it’s just him riled up that they could be starting the whole sexuality issue again – but why then bring the flirting up? – or that he doesn’t think Lewis would ever make that kind of comment, ever, or...or something else. Well, only one way to find out; no time like the present and all that.

“Well, _si-ir_ ,” Hathaway’s drawl is deliberate, yet not terrible convincing, given the slight tremble to the voice lurking deep, “I believe I can see why one could ‘fancy’” – the inverted commas drops neatly around the word like an old lady carefully picking up something nasty in a pair of tongs, “Julian Clary, if you’re into that sort of rather glam, effeminate type of person. What I meant, sir, is that he’s not the type that Fry goes for, though Clary is making an effort by making puppy dog eyes and pouting.”

“Oh, he’s not, is he? Well, then, lad, you’d better lift the veil on the real suspect; don’t leave me in suspense,” Lewis says, cocking his head and smiling slightly, fighting the smirk threatening to break out in his voice and on his lips. This will not do. He’ll have to play this as straight as he can. After all, he does want to know where the younger man wants to go with this, if anywhere at all. Gods, he hopes he wants to go somewhere with it, if the irregular thudding of his heart is any judge. Or it could be a heart-attack, of course. At his age far more likely. Hope not, for the lad’s sake. Not that the other reason behind the thudding is likely any better for him, necessarily.

The ‘lad’ clears his throat and gives up any pretence of watching the antics on the screen. He turns slowly towards Lewis and the face is studiously, deliberately unreadable. His tone is still light as he replies: “If you must know, sir, I’ve always thought that Stephen would go more for the darker type, who would play along with him. Just look at how affectionate he is towards Alan Davies”. There’s something else in the voice, too, something soft and as affectionate as he describes the QI master to be.

Lewis tries to swallow; at some unknown point his throat has gone dry and the thudding of his heart has sped. The sound of his swallow is loud to his ears. On the other side of the sofa James is edging a little closer, his eyes staring as intently as his expression is still unreadable. He is trying to convey something without actually saying it – typical Hathaway, that is. If only his face wasn’t so...inanimate. Or maybe that is actually a good thing, come to think of it. If the intensity in the eyes were reflected in his face, Robbie really would have a heart-attack. Because of the shock, if nothing else.

Lewis takes a deep breath, aiming to keep the light tone yet displaying the same affection as well, to let Hathaway know that whatever he’s playing at, he’s not averse to it, even if it’s just confidentiality. “Then what you’re saying is that you also fancy Alan Davies?” Okay, not the best deduction he’s ever made, probably, but he’s not really in a position for his deductive powers to take a front seat, not with all the other feelings and functions taking up space. Hell, there’s almost not room for them in the trunk.

Hathaway looms a little closer. A warm smile – a real, honest-to-God smile, not a smirk – is tugging at his lips. Lewis feels a tentative hand come to rest on his knee; only the eyes focused on him and his reactions keeps his gaze from flicking down to look at the hand. “And here I took you to be a good detective, sir. Clearly it is good for us both you have a sergeant that can do the work for you. I was not saying I ‘fancy’” – once again the inverted commas drop neatly down around the word as if it’s unpleasant somehow – “Alan Davies or Stephen Fry or David Mitchell or even David Tennant. I am merely pointing out that I can see why Fry would find likeable qualities in them, regardless of them being straight or not. However, I am not entirely sure whether they are actually all that straight.”

“Are you sure we’re still talking about the show, Sergeant?” _Are you sure we’re not talking about you?_ He doesn’t add that last bit, but it hangs in the, admittedly now pretty limited, air between them.

James doesn’t answer; he just smiles wider, mischievous and daring, and looms closer still. Lewis has a short moment of looking into the depth of eyes shining with a myriad of emotions – hope, fear, resignation, fondness, slight dread, adoration, to name but a few – before soft lips descend gently upon his own slightly dry ones.

He can taste wine, take-away, nicotine and...something else. Something that he can’t quite place. Must be what pure Hathaway tastes like, then. Now the lips are pulling away and that isn’t right. He wants that taste, that sensation – it’s not fair to give him a taste and then let him starve. So he makes a small noise and follows the lips, but restrains himself from going any further than that. This has to be Hathaway’s decision – he started all of this and now he can finish it.

When they pull apart, both are smiling. Hathaway, however, quickly loses his smile and looks down, fidgeting like a boy caught doing something wrong, as if he’s suddenly worried what Lewis will do. When nothing happens – no movement, no outbursts – he looks up tentatively and meets the steady gaze of his superior. A hand comes to rest on his knee; a mirror of his own actions earlier. “Sir, I-“

“James, I would quite like for the one I intend to snog thoroughly senseless to call me by my actual name. So unless you intend for it to become a regular pet-name in bed, which I would hope you do not, it would be nice to lose the “sir”, don’t you think?”

For once, all guards come down and the blonde’s face is clearly readable. In fact, the whole of it lights up as if Hathaway has just been handed salvation and every Christmas wish he ever had all at once. Lewis barely has time to register this, though, as his sergeant suddenly pounces him.

Lying on his back on the sofa, hands groping everywhere they can get a hold of, tongue dancing with Hathaway’s, Robbie dimly sends his silent thanks to Stephen Fry and his Quite Interesting show. Yes, very definitely a Queer Idea. But not a bad one, for all that.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah - I hope to improve, but please tell me where I went wrong and where I went right.
> 
> The episode mentioned with Clary - as if you care - is series D, ep.7 and the one with Tennant is series G, ep. 5.
> 
> Also - if you can find the few quotes I've sneaked in (they are not marked), I'll write you a fic, your preferences ;)


End file.
